


convocation via confrontation

by SpectralSkyscraper



Series: judas and his betrayal [6]
Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: 90s crime babies are back at it again, Asphyxiation, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, First Meetings, M/M, Meet-Cute, Michael is whipped as hell, Murder, Violence, not the sexy kind sorry guys, young!Trikey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:17:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23809993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpectralSkyscraper/pseuds/SpectralSkyscraper
Summary: “What’s your name?” Michael asks, breathless, and not from the bruises on his throat.
Relationships: Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips
Series: judas and his betrayal [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/777021
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48





	convocation via confrontation

**Author's Note:**

> hello! been a while huh? anywho here's the infamous first meeting story, they're both roughly 25-26 here, but Trevor's underweight and dresses like a nine year old who was set loose in a neon-only store, so mike pegs him to be a few years younger. warnings for typical violence, and as always pls b nice to me i wrote this in one sitting like 5 mins ago :)

When Michael meets Trevor, it’s by accident. He’s just jacked some asshole’s car- doesn’t matter what he needed it for, it’s been so long that he hardly remembers now. Michael pulls hastily into a barren looking dirt lot in the sticks- a lone airplane was visible maybe 20 yards away- and was just about to put the guy on his ass for having the audacity to follow him in a _second_ car- what the hell-, when the dick’s car rams into the one Michael’s driving. 

Mike bites back a swear and brake checks him, before practically hurling himself out of the car. The guy follows suit, and Michael realizes he doesn’t have his gun on him- only his worn and well-loved switchblade. Whatever, it’ll do. As the guy looks just about ready to execute a sloppy charge in Michael’s direction, the little crop duster of a plane starts with a shudder and pulls over to them slowly. Someone hops out smoothly to the dirt. Michael looks to them out of the corner of his eye. 

The person in question is- well, he looks like he’s 95 pounds soaking wet, and maybe- this is Michael being generous here- 21. The way he leans against the shitty little plane and lazily lights a cigarette, ash falling onto his neon orange tee tucked messily into filthy cuffed jeans, holds Michael’s attention in a way he’s entirely unused to. Michael feels noticeably less steady on his feet. He’s not sure what to think about the way his heart speeds when the stranger flicks big brown eyes up at him from under locks of shoulder length dirty umber hair, and grins. 

Michael realizes that he’s been staring, and shoots a panicked glance back at the guy he was supposed to be fighting, and blanks at the fact that he isn’t in front of him anymore. Now, the guy’s foaming at the fucking mouth, hollering something or other at the strange airplane boy, and pointing angrily back at Michael. Michael doesn’t want to have to stab airplane-boy. He looks like he’d be pretty fun to rob a gas station with. He looks like he’d be pretty fun to do lots of things with. Michael tries to snap himself out of wherever the fuck  _ that  _ thought was going, just to see Mr. Asshole himself lunge at him.

Michael goes down embarrassingly easy, knife skidding away into the dirt. The area is lit only with the one flood light at the edge of the lot, and Michael knows he needs glasses, but fuck, he can’t find his knife- he can’t find his  _ knife-  _ and the man’s hands encircle his throat and his own hands seem to slide right off of the grip on his neck- where’s his  _ knife-  _

The man above him lets out a scream and his hands leave Michael’s throat to fly up to his own cheek- the scent of burned flesh fills Michael’s nose. Airplane-boy doesn’t even look at Michael, but he can see the wildfire in the brown eyes, in that excited smile. Airplane-boy picks his cigarette up off the ground from where it fell after being crammed into the guy’s face and re-lights it as the guy writhes on the ground- a little dramatic if you ask Michael. A draw in, a calming exhale, and a cloud of smoke pluming from dry lips is all the time Michael needs to get up. The boy finally looks at him, and the mirth in his eyes makes Michael feel like they’re sharing an inside joke. Michael feels like he wants to share more with him. He suddenly feels warm, then hot as the boy uses a foot to pin the guy more securely to the ground. His converse have little smiley faces drawn onto them in marker, Michael notes. 

The airplane-boy squats down, and the man chokes at the sudden pressure on his throat. “What,” the boy utters, and Michael is taken aback. His voice sounds like a pack of Marlboros and arrogance personified- he loves it. The boy gets real close to the man on the ground. “Can’t take a little of your own goddamn  _ medicine _ ?” The boy laughs, raspy and angry and overjoyed, drunk on violence, and stands up again. The man looks grateful to have the weight off his chest and neck. Then, quick as light, quick as death, the boy pulls a plastic orange gun out of his back pocket, and fires a flash of bright red light into the man’s left eye. 

It reminds Michael of the fourth of July, or maybe a campfire, smoldering the same neon orange as airplane-boy’s shirt where the now-dead man’s eye used to be. Airplane-boy is devastatingly calm again, almost bored, as he tosses aside the flare gun like a broken toy and brushes a few stray embers off of his jeans.. 

“What’s your name?” Michael asks, breathless, and not from the bruises on his throat. 

Pretty brown eyes narrow in glee and a smile breaks out on his face. “I’m Trevor. You?”

Michael has never done this before- he can’t think about how much trouble he could get in for dropping his own name at a murder scene. He doesn’t care. Trevor asked him a question. “Michael.” 

Trevor pulls out an elastic from his pocket, and ties back his mousy (cute) russet hair, staring down at the body as the last sparks of the flare die and they are plunged in the semi-brightness of the flood light above them. Then, he looks at Michael, and Michael feels like he’s taking an exam- anxiety and hope and blood rushing to his head at the sight of those scrutinizing tawny eyes and wild smile. 

“I think,” A chuckling exhale of smoke, “I’m gonna call you Mikey.” 

Michael doesn’t care what Trevor calls him. He doesn’t care, as long as these few moments stretch on as long as they can. He feels like he’s in a trance. Trevor seems to know this, lighting up another cigarette and giving one to Michael. They share a smile under the lights of the air field. They burn the body that night, and the cars, and they don’t look back for many years.


End file.
